


If Given Utterance

by devilsduplicity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Future Castiel, Future Fic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gets what he can, when he can. That doesn't mean his head's always in the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Given Utterance

If Given Utterance

**Who:** future!Castiel/OFC, mentions of future!Dean.  
 **What:** Castiel gets what he can, when he can. That doesn't mean his head's always in the moment.  
 **When:** 5.04, set sometime during "The End".  
 **Word Count:** 731  
 **Warnings:** M; sexuality.

If Given Utterance

 

He presses in, pulls out; fingers like bear traps wrapped around her silky blonde hair. He prefers brunettes but, really, who is he to judge? Hair color, eye color, facial features may differ, but a mouth is always a mouth, and her lips fit _oh-so_ tight around his cock, and his head tips back so he has an unobstructed view of the ceiling; so it doesn’t even really matter _what_ she looks like because he isn’t even looking.

 

He’d stopped doing that a long time ago. It made them think this was intimate or something, and Castiel did so hate to shatter hopeful dreams.

 

Instead, he worries his lower lip between his teeth, fights to hold in the moan threatening to tear from his throat, and thrusts upward so mightily, the woman currently working him into a frenzy has to pull back and splutter.

 

“Sorry,” he says, but what he _means_ is, _‘Get back here, now.’_ There is no room for argument, and no need for pity. She complies without him ever having to say the words out loud, and soon the heat and the wet and the _ohgodsogood_ is back, full force. He tries to restrain himself at first, out of some sense of propriety, but it doesn’t take long for the chivalrous bullshit to drop like a lead weight, and soon his fingers are gripping blonde locks and pulling her closer in sync with the steady grind of his insistent hips.

 

Castiel is a nymphomaniac. It can’t be helped, really, because the first part of his life (the very _long_ and sometimes _excruciating_ part – the one that consisted of grace and angelic deities and orders) was spent sexless, and the transition time between what he _once was_ and what he _now is_ was equal parts quelling of his newfound libido, and discovering – in oftentimes creative ways – that the body he had chosen as his permanent vessel wasn’t entirely unattractive.

 

He takes what he can get, and what he can get is sometimes a nice little slut like the one kneeling so desperately between his spread thighs.

 

“That’s it, baby,” he says, and the endearment, once clumsy and awkward, now slides like oil on his tongue. His fingers run gently through her hair, tug her down even as he grinds up. She’s in pain, and it’s hard for her to breathe, but Castiel either doesn’t notice, or just doesn’t _care_ ; it’s hard to tell the difference between these things, nowadays. All he can think of is the need to find release, the need to let that white light of ungodliness wash over him, to feel the taint of sex imbed irreparable damage into his soul.

 

Her mouth is sweet, and her tongue is soft, and her eyes – a pretty shade of blue – are staring up at him in wonder, in _need_ ; like she’s a woman who has sinned, and he’s the fucking angel sent to redeem her.

 

The last time Castiel had thought he’d redeemed a man, he’d merely ended up pulling him out of one Hell only to throw him into another.

 

But it wasn’t her turn to find release – Castiel had gone down on her plenty of times that day, just to watch her writhe, just to hear her scream – and so with shaking, greedy fingers, the once-angel, now fallen, now mostly human, now— _what the fuck_ , he doesn’t even know what to call himself anymore – pumps steadily into her warm and welcome mouth until he goes careening off the edge of bliss and tips over, falls, jerks straight down her worn and abused throat.

 

He can’t remember her name, so he says the first one that comes to mind, and when blonde hair and blue eyes yank back, incredulous, and open-toed sandals go clacking across the floor; when the beads to his cabin are thrust to the side, and her parting word is nothing more than a low, hissed, _faggot_ , Castiel merely tips his head back, stretches his body languidly across his much too large bed, and gives her a half-hearted, parting wave.

 

There’s a smile on his lips, and he doesn’t know why, but he’s pretty sure it’s the drugs.

 

He closes his eyes and palms himself softly before tucking himself back into his pants with a muted, somewhat sloppy sigh.

 

Blonde hair, blue eyes aren’t really his thing. He much prefers brunettes; much prefers green.

  
 


End file.
